The Boy from the Gutter
by poetrygirl22
Summary: 'It was noticeable only if you looked for it, but when you did it shone like a glowing beacon. The little things. His name whispered from the shadows as they ride along, thieves skirting around them as they walked the streets.' About Porthos's past at the Court, and just what he did to deserve the Court's respect.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own anything Musketeer related.**

**Please please please tell me what you think in reviews, I really appreciate it and it inspires me to keep writing.**

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Porthos was treated a God at the Court. They treated him with a kind of awe only he, Charon and Flea had. Charon had lost all honour when it was discovered that he had tried to kill his subjects. Though when news spread Porthos and Flea's reputation only grew. Flea rose to be Queen, ruling fairly with strength and power. Porthos continued to be a Musketeer. But they loved him, everyone at the Court. Of course he had enemies, but even they were soon surpassed by his admirers.

It was noticeable only if you looked for it, but when you did it shone like a glowing beacon. The little things. His name whispered from the shadows as they ride along, thieves skirting around them as they walked the streets. Bandits on the outskirts of Paris letting them through, even some running away. Young children clambering towards him, only to be held back by their elders. A drinking fee conveniently forgotten, people rising to protect him as soon as there was brawl, or hiding behind him. It was only little things, but they were there.

The legend of Porthos the Pirate and Flea the Free has been retold many times, the tale morphing and twisting with each person who tell it. Inquire and you might hear about how the fish rose to the surface when she called, how he died, and woke up with powers, shooting light from his fingertips and lasers from his eyes. But I will tell you the true tale of what happened, without the inane fabrications.

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So we begin with a rainy day, when the water made the mud heavy, and it squelched underneath the two orphan's feet as they raced towards the relative safety of the dingy streets of the Court de Miracles. They ran across narrow lanes and over low buildings, scrambling over anything in their way. They duck out of the way of a drunken fight. The man who was following them grabs on two Flea's long, blonde curls and wrapped his hand around her mouth. She bites into his hand as he kicks the man in the shin, causing him to leap backwards and swear loudly. They continued on, twisting and turning. The man soon gave up, and was swallowed up by the cold night air.

Flea turned to Porthos, nodding once, before they walked off down a side street. The Court is deadly at night, and that is painfully clear as they walk the streets. A scream pierces the air, before dying off. A drunken warble rose and fell, clashing with the drunken shouts of a nearby tavern. A pistol fired somewhere, the bang seeming so very loud. They increased their speed slightly, clutching each other's hand. A baby was crying, a child's laugh morphing into a demonic screech. A man with only one tooth stepped out of the shadows, lunging towards the frightened children. They ran away, searching for light. After a while his footsteps fell away behind them, but on they still ran.

A boy, perhaps a year older, called to them. His name was Charon, and he protected the slightly younger two. He taught them how to fight, letting them go away and find their own techniques. They were both thin and weary with hunger, but Porthos was broader and stronger, and Flea was quicker and better with words. Charon rested his hands on both of their shoulders, making them breathe slower and deeper. Eventually they lay down to sleep on the worn blanket they shared. It was a bitingly cold night. The pair huddled together for warmth, her body fitting perfectly next to his. They fell asleep that way, their stomachs empty and their fingers numb on the cold, hard ground. Charon looked on, his cheeks flushed with envy.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own a single Musketeer.**

**Please please please review. I love all your comments.**

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They awoke from their sleep, and for once neither's had been peppered with nightmares. That was what their presence tended to do to each other. When first Flea then Porthos rubbed the sand from their eyes and stared blearily around them, the sun had just risen, scaring away the shadows. It was bitterly cold, and they both shivered. Charon was beside them, and offered a friendly smile. He helped them up, and offered a cloak each. They were far too big, and were ripped and torn in places, mud splattered around. There was snow dotted around, and their bare feet were fast turning blue.

"Merry Christmas." His voice was kind, and reminded them of warm nights beside a fire. Warm nights that now seem no more then a distant dream.

They pulled their warm cloaks around themselves, and gave him toothy smiles. For the first time they were properly warm, and felt almost regal in their new presents. The best Christmas presents they could ever hope for. And to them, they were the luckiest children in Paris.

They and Charon set off in different directions, Flea and Porthos laughing all the way. The Court didn't seem nearly so dangerous now the sun was shining. What with the laughing babies and the playing children, and the couples kissing on the street, the only place in Paris where they don't have to fear judgement and punishment for their love. The inns were full and ale was fast flowing, insuring that the Court would be full of the very drunk and very merry by this evening. They carried on past, towards the square. There was an upper class market there at the moment, selling fine silks and succulent milks. On the walked. They stuck to the shadows, already invisible because if their status. It seems that the 'respectable' ladies and gentlemen of Paris were blind to the poor, hungry orphans that they trod on.

They carefully removed their beautiful cloaks, folding them up tenderly. Then, stashing their new garments safely under their arm's, they made their way up the nearest building. Reaching up with his arms, burying his fingers into the tiniest cracks and pulling himself up, Porthos climbed up the nearest building. Flea soon left his side, snaking up the building as fast as she could walk. She was light and wiry, and had been climbing since she was a young toddler. Porthos was naturally stronger, so could pull himself up easily. Flea always won the races though.

Paris was ruled by men, and they had twice the influence of women. But in the Court, ladies weren't up for sitting pretty and looking after the children. They were streetwise and clever, leaving their mark and making a difference. And because the streets were still ruled by men, the women took to the roofs. They'd move around on top, just out of sight. They'd meet and sell, teach their children the ropes. They provided a safe (as long as you didn't fall off) place for children, out of the way of drunk men and fearsome Red Guards. When a boy came of age, he was no longer welcome on the roofs. There were a few women, who all but lived on the roofs, called Anges Gardiens. Guardian Angels. They were skilled and deadly, carrying around pistols and knives. They could do more than hold their own in a fight, they were more than a match for a couple of Red Guards or a few overly ambitious man. If they were being beaten, or saw something happen to another but could not help, they would simply open their mouth and sing three high, sweet notes. The song would echo around the towering buildings, letting all Anges Gardiens who could hear them know that they were needed. They would all congregate, and when that happened you should pity their enemies. That's why they were called the Guardian Angels, for guarding orphans, and the way their voices sounded, strangely sweet in a harsh, unforgiving world. Flea's mother had been one of them, before the Red Guards captured her. She had been thrown on a cell, given a life sentence without a fair trial. A Red Guard General took an interest in her, and nine months later she managed to escape with a tiny, pale baby in her arms. The baby had blonde curls and piercing eyes, and the Anges Gardiens found her crying in a gutter, her mother's blood staining her blanket. She was still in her mother's unmoving hands when she was found. Her mother had caught a bullet in her back. It was a miracle that her baby girl was alive at all.

Once the young orphans were up they linked hands once again, squeezing once before glancing around quickly. Once satisfied that they were alone, they got down on their hands and knees and Porthos took hold of a loose roof tile and wrenched upwards. They looked down on the tiny, secure place that held everything they held most dear. There was a necklace, bearing a fearsome beast's tooth that had once belonged to Porthos's mother. A note written for Flea in fine, curling script. Neither could read, so Flea kept her mother's final goodbye merely as proof that the woman they told stories of had actually existed, once. It was a poor substitute for memories, but it was all she had. There was a few dirty coins, a few rags Flea used to tie her hair up and a bandana Porthos had found and cleaned to the best of his ability.

To another child in a different part of Paris, the small collection would seem pathetic and depressing, but the pair looked at their hoard with upmost pride in their eyes.

After carefully shutting and covering with spare tiles and straw, they scrambled back down again. Hands held. A few more steps took them out of the Court, and into the huge Market. Christmas Day was always the best. People didn't even notice, and if they did notice they were too drunk and merry to care. The rich came to spend, children running excitedly around to spend their Christmas penny's. Rich, young women climbed out of lacy carriages, giggling at the prospect of spending the money their doting father's gave them. Adults bustled around, buying last minute presents and selling the gifts they'd received and hated. There were great, bright stalls selling silk and lace, thread in bright colours and vast dresses covered in frills. There were beautiful rugs and curtains, little golden chains and ornate pockets in gold and silver that reflected the sun. Snow blanketed the ground, hiding the usual mud and grime. Toothless drunks warbled and yelled, blushing couples held hands and married pairs with greyish hair talked in hushed voices. A boy in front of him screamed and laughed, and Porthos's heart sank. He was wearing clean, new clothes and clutching at his parents' hands. He had red cheeks and a loud voice, not afraid to be heard. As he walked a Red Guard bent down and ruffled his hair, handing him a penny. The boy carried on, his smile even wider than before. They visited a store that smelled of succulent chicken and roasted turkey. The father, a broad, jolly man, handed over some coins, and received three of the biggest, most delicious-looking chickens the young, hungry boy had ever seen. They set off home, the father leading, then the son, then the mother. The mother made his heart sink even lower in his chest. She had soft, ivory skin, and wore a huge smile. The wasn't tall, and she wasn't thin, but she was beautiful. Brown, straight hair flowed down the back of her pale pink dress. Something about her spoke of roaring fires and gently cooking meat, of soft beds and a loving family. It spoke of hugs and kisses and safety. Then she saw him, and her eyes grew cold and sharp, and her mouth turned into a scowl. His heart sunk even further. He felt sick.

He let his mind run away again, let himself start to dream again. Dream of things that could never be. His mother was a slave. His father was an evil man. He lived in the Court de Miricales His skin was dark. It could never be. He had to start living in the real world. He had to realise he would never have respect, never feel love, never be protected. He had a friend he would die for, a brother that looked after him. That was enough. That was all he would ever have. Wasn't it?

"Porthos? Porthos? Hello?" It was Flea, she was shaking his shoulder. He must have zoned out again.

"Sorry."

"Come on, we'd better get going if we want to eat tonight." The words were joking, but there was a seriousness there. She cared about the Court. Porthos wondered what she would say if she knew what he had just been thinking.

"Yeh, of course. Distraction?"

"Sounds good." She smiled, but there was fleeting concern in her eyes. In a second it was gone, and Porthos thought he must have imagined it. Then Flea was off, weaving around the bustling crowds. Porthos readied himself beside a particularly pretentious looking stall holder, standing just in front of his stall selling succulent chicken. Flea caught his eye, and he nodded down the market, planning a quick route in his head. She nodded back. She was clever, and she was quick, and he relied on that. She held a bag in her hands. He picked up a rock, weighing it in his right hand. His eyes made contact with the important-looking Red Guard standing near the front of the pack of Red Guards. Porthos allowed himself a small smile, noting the way most of them smiled, a few of them with bottles still in their hands. Drinking on duty.

He let the rock fly. It sailed over the bustling crowd, arcing round to smack the Red Guard in the forehead. The effect was immediate. A soldier roared, already looking round for the origin of the rock. His gaze settled on the boy. Then Porthos was off, weaving round the heaving crowds. They followed after him. Perhaps it was because they were drunk, or perhaps it was because they'd been fooled by thieves too many times. Maybe it was because the commander was a little more important than Porthos had thought, or maybe it was because the stone combined with the day's heavy drinking and eating had caused him to fall unconscious to the ground. Whatever the reason for it was, the result was the same. A Red Guard brought out his pistol and fired. And Porthos fell onto the snow-covered ground. The snow stained red around him.


End file.
